


Armor Of Righteousness

by ineffablefool



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: (nobody says the word but they both know what they mean), (not a plot point but there's plenty of loving descriptors so you don't forget), Asexual Relationship, Chubby Aziraphale (Good Omens), First Kiss, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Light Angst, Love Confessions, No Sex, No Smut, Other, Post-Canon, Protective Aziraphale (Good Omens), but no swearin', how did I forget that tag????, inspired by a speremint@Tumblr sketch, lil bit of ableist language, takes place in my home the Soft Zone(TM)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-22
Updated: 2019-08-22
Packaged: 2020-09-24 02:09:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,209
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20350627
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ineffablefool/pseuds/ineffablefool
Summary: They had let their guard down.  Barely eight months, now, since the two of them had defied Heaven and Hell, had stood together against everything, all of it, and struck a match to every bridge behind them as they went.  And now this, so unfairly soon — it must have been Hell making their move.  Or Heaven.  Either side could be coming for Crowley now, and Crowley wasn’t ready.  Neither of them were.(Aziraphale, still sitting on all his feelings for Crowley months after the not-apocalypse, gets a panicked call from him, and prepares to defend him with skills last used before the Earth was formed.  Will he be in time?) (Spoiler, yes he will.  This story takes place in the Soft Zone and I promise that nobody will get hurt.)





	Armor Of Righteousness

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! The asexual-and-fat-positive lens is back firmly in place today for what was _supposed_ to start out as a very dramatic protective-Aziraphale story before shifting into something very silly. Unfortunately, I seem to have tripped on the silly, bypassed it almost entirely, and fallen right over into the Soft Zone instead. I like it this way, though. I hope you enjoy an Aziraphale who prefers his corporation shaped just as it is, coming to Crowley's rescue in a situation where I promise you (and I don't care that this is a spoiler because I'd rather nobody worry) that no one gets hurt.
> 
> This fic was inspired by three Tumblr posts.
> 
> The first, and most important, was a post by Tumblr user speremint, and **I highly recommend you take a look at it before reading, for context:** [a sketch of Aziraphale in armor](https://speremint.tumblr.com/post/186728735045/ive-been-ranting-about-essentially-my-rpgwow-au) as part of her WOW AU (the finished art is [here](https://speremint.tumblr.com/post/186807020940/so-anyway-heres-my-wow-au-no-one-asked-about-but) and it’s gorgeous). I got to thinking about an Aziraphale in the main universe who would have reason to get suited up like that, hence why this story exists at all. (The armor in the story is not intended to be identical to what speremint drew, just vaguely similar. Also, I don’t know very much about armor at all. I have tried to keep the descriptions light so as not to draw too much attention to the gaps in my mostly-Googled knowledge, but I apologize to armor geeks for any clunkers that slipped through. One thing that will probably bother those in the know is that I went for vaguely medieval-ish European armor, and that doesn't seem to have had _boots_, as opposed to separate articulated leggy and footy bits. But speremint drew boots, so I kept 'em.)
> 
> The second was Tumblr user toastedbuckwheat’s post [”Revisiting Memories”](https://toastedbuckwheat.tumblr.com/day/2019/08/03), less the artwork (though he’s one of my favorite artists for Aziraphales) and more the headcanon text beneath it. (Note, art could be NSFW depending on the W, but isn’t explicit.)
> 
> The third is actually a spoiler that I want to keep unspoiled, so it won’t be linked until the end-of-work notes.
> 
> I'm writing for the TV characterization, but I've decided that my written Aziraphale's body is shaped like how Tumblr user speremint draws him (([1](https://speremint.tumblr.com/post/186342035100/i-did-this-instead-of-my-hw-ya-girl-is-gonna)) ([2 from her Reversed Omens AU](https://speremint.tumblr.com/post/186574829700/finally-finally-done-making-these-refs-my)) ([dotstronaut also draws a gorgeous Aziraphale with a lovely round face](https://dotstronaut.tumblr.com/post/186740069618/no-really-i-dont-think-you-all-understand-how))), because I much prefer to imagine that as I work. Please also imagine that as you read!

Aziraphale picked up the phone on the fifth ring. “A. Z. Fell and Company booksellers. How may I help you?”

“Angel!” There was some kind of commotion on the line, and then Crowley’s voice, barely audible over the din. “Angel, listen, I —”

“Crowley? I thought you were coming by in a bit.”

“No, _listen_, angel.” The voice coming out of the antique telephone was hard to make out, distorted by background noises, but Aziraphale could still hear a distinct note of worry. Or — more. Panic? “Listen to me very, very carefully, okay? I —”

A sudden crashing. Crowley swore, and then said something in the background which Aziraphale couldn’t quite understand. It sounded like it ended with “or I’ll have to kill you”.

“_Crowley_!”

“Look, whatever you do, stay away from my flat,” Crowley said. “I’m not going to be able to make lunch today, and I’m sorry for that. Really.” A pause. Aziraphale’s eyes widened. Was that — the sound of beating wings? “But don’t come after me. You stay right there in your bookshop. You — you stay _there_. Okay?”

Aziraphale winced as another series of noises clattered down the line. His hand twisted in the phone’s cord, so tightly that it was a wonder he hadn’t broken the connection. “What’s _happening_, Crowley?! Tell me how I can help! I can be there in a moment if —”

“_No_!” There was an echoing thud, and then silence but for Crowley’s panting breath. “Stay _there_, angel. I’ll deal with this on my own.”

“You can’t —”

A click. The hum of the dial tone.

Aziraphale’s knees buckled, spilling him to the ground.

* * *

They had been too lax. Had let their guard down. Barely eight months, now, since the two of them had defied Heaven and Hell, had stood together against everything, all of it, and struck a match to every bridge behind them as they went.

What was it Crowley had said, after everything? That they’d be left alone, but only for a bit? Well, it seemed now that he had been right. But not even a _year_ before that bit of time was up, and now this, so unfairly soon — it must have been Hell making their move. Or Heaven. Either side could be coming for Crowley now, and Crowley wasn’t ready. Neither of them were. They’d been too lax.

_**I’ve** been too lax. Too slow. Eight months a coward, when I could have told him, any **day** I could have told him_ —

Only he’d been afraid. No longer of _your side_ and _my side_ but of _you and me_.

And if they were coming to take Crowley from him now...

Aziraphale forced his legs to work again, to bear his shaking weight. He made his way to one of the shop’s very backmost rooms, where not even he had been in decades.

There was a large wardrobe there. Aziraphale pressed his hands against the wood for a moment, let out a bone-deep sigh, and then pulled the doors open.

There were things he had worn once, long ago, and which he still kept. Some had been a choice, had been what he had wanted to wear, had wanted to use to present himself to the world. A dainty pair of 18th-century shoes. A top hat which would probably still have breadcrumbs tucked miraculously inside, if he happened to want to feed some ducks.

But others had been forced upon him. Older, these, and more than Earthly. They might seem to human eyes to rest on a shelf or hang from a peg the same as any other attire, but Aziraphale knew they occupied spaces beyond those of terrestrial sight. He had kept them, too, without letting himself consider why. Without thinking too much about what cause might be enough for him to ever don them again.

Aziraphale lifted the shining golden breastplate in hands which no longer shook.

Crowley needed him. This was his greatest cause.

It was strange, really, how easily he recalled the motions, after eons longer than the Earth had lived. A snap replaced his normal clothing with linen tunic and padded gambeson. Sturdy wool hosen beneath. Not quite what he had used for arming wear in that beyond-ancient past, but it would do. The celestial armor came next, his hands working as quickly at the task as they ever had, even though each second tore at his heart. The true essence of the stuff made it miracle-proof, though, and that made this frustrating manual process necessary.

The boots were a simple enough matter. After them was the mail shirt, by far the heaviest piece, fifty pounds if it was anything, and even that less than if it had been wholly mundane. He had never been the smallest Heavenly warrior to have to outfit, after all. Once on and belted, the mail turned his silhouette into something speaking of power and strength, rather than quiet nights spent at home with a mug of cocoa.

Thick leather (though also ethereal) kilt. Stout tassets curving about his hips. Shimmering breastplate, studded with eye-like jewels which were not quite jewels, and winged spaulders, all strapped in place as minutes ticked agonizingly by. It felt an eternity by the time all was done.

When he had it assembled, he knew, he did not look soft. Broad, still, and deep-bellied. But the Principality Aziraphale in his celestial armor had never looked _soft_.

_Then I will carry it in me, until I may show it again._

The sword he had kept was not the flaming sword of the Eastern Gate, but it would do.

_Please still be all right, my dear. Don’t let me be too late._

Aziraphale gathered up his power, readying himself for the miracle needed to bring him to Crowley’s aid. He would need to arrive at the flat ready for whatever might be waiting for him. No time to recover after making the jump. If he hesitated at all, it could mean Crowley’s life. Or, in other words, everything.

He raised his hand, fingers poised, and whispered the words he was still too coward to share.

“I love you.”

Snap.

* * *

He materialized just inside the door to Crowley’s flat. There was a hideous instant when he staggered, when his vision blackened, but when it cleared he was still alone. Good, in that he hadn’t been spotted. Bad, in that... that...

_I could already be too la — _

_**No**_.

Aziraphale could see into what might have been a sitting room from here, and into the space where Crowley kept his plants. Both were in ruins. A spill of potting soil and some mangled leaves lay strewn across the hall up ahead. He moved farther into the flat, sword at the ready.

Muffled, from some other room, a voice shouted. A familiar voice, filling Aziraphale’s veins with ice and his heart with fire.

Crowley was still alive. And by all the stars in the sky, Aziraphale would keep him that way.

He continued down the hall, following the voice and the accompanying sounds of struggle. There — a door, just ajar. The other rooms were empty as he passed, but wrecked, as if the fight had covered the entire flat. He gave a silent not-quite-prayer of thanks that there didn’t seem to be any sign of blood.

On the other side of the door, something heavy slammed to the ground. “— warning you,” Crowley snarled, “keep back or I’ll — _aaugh_!” What sounded like a body hitting a wall. Then Crowley’s panting breath, harsh and jagged.

And what really did sound, from the other side of the door, quite a bit like the flutter of wings.

Aziraphale drew one breath, deep into his belly. Let it out in a quiet rush.

Sword poised to strike, jaw set, he slammed through the door.

“_Keep away from him, or I will_ —”

Three things impressed themselves upon Aziraphale’s sight, one after the other, as the thunder of his voice died in his throat.

The first was Crowley, wild-eyed, frantic, but gloriously alive. He huddled in the far corner of the room, pressed with his back against the walls, trembling with each exhausted breath. His glasses were off, his gaze jittering, fully yellow.

The second thing was the state of the room. This seemed to be Crowley’s bedroom, and like the other rooms Aziraphale had passed, it was a shambles, furniture overturned and the few decorations smashed. The mattress had slid half off the bed, covers and pillows everywhere except where they belonged. There was a tall set of shelves, half-overturned onto a pile of its former contents. A shattered wooden mess against a wall might once have been a table.

The third thing he saw was Crowley’s attacker.

“Aziraphale!” Crowley scrambled back further into the corner, his eyes jumping between Aziraphale in the doorway and the other, perched atop the cockeyed shelves. “Get out of here, you idiot! I warned you, I — _aah_!” He shielded his head with his arms as the feathered intruder launched itself into the air, beating itself against the windows, against the walls.

Aziraphale lowered his sword, already feeling his corporation coming down from a very human adrenaline rush.

“Crowley. It’s a _pigeon_.”

“Of _course_ it’s a bloody pigeon, don’t know how the blasted thing got in here but now I don’t know how to get it to _leave_ —” He flinched back from the creature as it swooped near, then stared miserably at Aziraphale. “Just... _pigeons_, angel...”

The Principality Aziraphale, in all his shimmering celestial armor, set his sword down upon the floor. He stripped off his gauntlets as well, walking across the room until he stood, as tall as he was able, before Crowley. Sheltered the demon with his own much larger body. Reached gentle hands into the air.

“Come to me, now, there’s a dear,” he murmured. “There’s a love.” He cast his angelic essence out toward the frightened bird. Its flight grew less erratic, and when it settled at last in his hands, he soothed its frantic heartbeat to rest with only the smallest of miracles.

Behind him, he felt shaking fingers creep around his mailed waist.

“Open a window, would you, my dear?” He spoke softly, concentrating on the feathered creature in his hands, willing it to not fly loose and give Crowley another fright.

“None of the windows in here _open_, I’ve _never_ opened them, they’re bloody _decorative_ at this point...”

“They will now.”

The fingers scrabbled harder against his sides. “It’ll start doing that thing again if I move —”

“It won’t.” Aziraphale turned his head slightly, speaking over his shoulder. “Please do, Crowley. There’s a love.”

There was no answer for a moment, and then Crowley squeezed out from behind him and threw the nearest window open with a bang, before diving to the ground. The bird startled, but Aziraphale held fast.

“Out you go now, little fellow.” He straightened out a few ruffled feathers with his finger, then sent it toward safety with another tiny miraculous push.

Crowley shuddered audibly from the floor.

Aziraphale snapped the windows back to their normal state, closed and quite immovable. Then he looked down at Crowley, and his entire body trembled for several seconds before he could get it under control. There was only the barest quiver in his lip when he spoke again. “Good Lord, but you frightened me half to death with that phone call.”

“W’s fine,” Crowley said to the floor. “Had it under control. Or would’ve. Probably.” He flopped over, looking at Aziraphale with eyes that were still wide and huge-irised. “Angel. You put on your armor?”

“Yes, obviously.” Aziraphale reached out a hand, just long enough to haul Crowley to his feet. “After you called, I thought... well, I’d thought...”

“Thought I’d gone and bollocksed something up?”

“I thought they’d _come_ for you, Crowley.” His voice broke on the last word. “One side or the other. Perhaps both at once.”

A pause.

“Oh,” Crowley replied.

“There was no way to know if I would — make it to you in time. To save you.” He resisted the urge to wring his hands. “I don’t know what I would have done if you’d...”

Crowley cleared his throat. “Was just a pigeon. Not such a big deal, pigeons.”

“Love, you were _terrified_.”

Another pause. “That’s the second time you’ve called me that,” Crowley said, very casually.

Aziraphale exhaled shakily. “Called you what?”

Crowley glanced at him for an instant, then looked away. His eyes seemed very bright all of a sudden.

_What did I..._

_Oh._

Aziraphale swallowed. “I feared the worst, Crowley. And I feared that I’d lost the chance to ever — tell you.”

Some expression passed over Crowley’s face, not anything Aziraphale recognized, and he wondered what response there would be. Perhaps a change of subject. A shrugging-off of what he was trying to say. Maybe anger, maybe a reminder that he’d had his chance fifty years ago, and he’d certainly thrown it away then, hadn’t he?

But then the golden eyes were on his. “You’ve told me now,” Crowley said. His hands moved slightly, as though he might raise them, then stilled again. “‘M glad.”

“You are?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh, good,” Aziraphale sighed. “Good.”

Crowley only looked at him for another moment. The beautiful serpent eyes gazed into his, a fond smile playing about the thin face; then those eyes dropped slowly, as if to take all of him in. The smile crooked just a little.

“Brave knight in shining armor, you. Saving your demon in distress from a flying rat.” Then, with barely any pause: “You look amazing, though. I mean, you always do. Have I ever told you that? Even in your stupid bow tie and your stupid coat. Just bloody amazing.”

Aziraphale flushed to the very roots of his hair.

Now Crowley did raise his arms, stepping closer as he did so, and his palms flattened against the mailed expanse of Aziraphale’s belly. “But I want to hold you now, angel, and I don’t want to do it when you’re in full bloody mail.”

“If — if you’re trying some kind of _demonic temptation_ —”

Crowley leaned in suddenly, closing his eyes and resting his forehead against Aziraphale’s, mouth almost close enough to kiss. Almost. “I’m not trying to _strip_ you, Aziraphale. I just want _my_ angel back. Not the avenging angel of Heaven. Okay?”

Aziraphale managed a nod.

“Okay.” Crowley pulled away. “I’m going to deal with some of the wreckage. Come out when you’re done.”

He shut the door behind himself, leaving Aziraphale in the bedroom alone.

Removing the armor was as oddly familiar as putting it on had been. Each piece in turn was unbuckled and removed, set upon Crowley’s miraculously-neatened bed. Beneath the mail was only the mundane arming wear, all perfectly susceptible to a minor application of angelic power. Aziraphale snapped his fingers to replace them with his standard attire.

He elected to forgo the coat, however. It seemed somehow too formal for the occasion.

He fussed with his waistcoat for a moment, smoothing out the ghosts of wrinkles. Without the heavy mail to hold it firm, his body spread gently, all yielding curves.

_Soft again. Yes. Yes, much better than being Heaven’s soldier, I think._

With that sorted, he left to go find his demon.

* * *

The plant room was pristine again, a verdant paradise in the middle of the soot-gray flat. Crowley was standing in the middle of it when Aziraphale found him.

“That blessed bow tie,” Crowley said. “At least the armor wasn’t tartan.”

“I didn’t choose the armor, Crowley.”

“Spose you didn’t.”

Aziraphale took one tentative step closer. “And it’s — put away, now.”

“Yeah?”

“Or at least, I’m not wearing it anymore.” Another step. “No more, ah, ‘avenging angel’.”

“No.”

“You said you wanted _your_ angel back.”

Crowley’s voice roughened. “I did.”

“Well...”

Aziraphale found himself with no end to that sentence, so he settled for opening his arms.

Crowley leapt across the remaining space between them, connecting with such force that Aziraphale nearly staggered backward. “Angel.” Crowley’s arms wrapped around his chest, pulling their bodies together. “_Angel_.” Crowley’s face buried itself against the side of Aziraphale’s neck, muffling his words. “_My_ angel.”

Aziraphale felt his own arms find their way around his beloved. “I am,” he admitted. “For as long as you will have me.”

He felt Crowley take a deep breath against him. The arms around his chest pulled back, slipped between them, until Crowley’s palms were against Aziraphale’s belly again.

This time there was no mail to hem in his broad body, to shape it into something it was not. There was only him, as he was. His roundness under shirt and waistcoat, and Crowley’s hands curving over it, and the sigh Crowley was now hissing out against his neck.

“You’ve always looked so soft,” Crowley said. “I’ve never known how anyone could look so soft.”

“I rather think it’s because I am.”

The hands mapped the breadth of him, slow and reverent. “Th... that’s probably it.”

Aziraphale turned his head, pressing a kiss against Crowley’s hair, and the demon shivered.

“Crowley?”

“Mn.”

“Next time a feral beast attacks you, would you please just _ask_ for my help?”

Crowley laughed, and oh, Aziraphale could _feel_ it, rumbling in the demon’s chest. Warm breath gusted against the side of his neck. “Will you dress up for it every time?”

“Oh, dear. I’d prefer not to, if it’s all the same to you.”

“My knight in shining tartan.”

Crowley raised his head, shifting back, just a little, so that they were looking at each other. His eyes were very yellow. Very beautiful. “Doesn’t the brave knight get to kiss the demon-in-distress after a rescue?”

“Does he?”

“Let’s say he does, yeah.”

Aziraphale felt something in his chest, something that had been waiting for a very long time to open, and he couldn’t quite decide whether to smile or cry. “What a lucky fellow.”

He slid one of his hands up Crowley’s back, into Crowley’s hair. Not to bring him closer, because Crowley was already doing that, serpent eyes closed as he leaned down, erasing the distance between them; but only to feel, against his tremulous fingers, the texture of the deep red locks.

When Crowley staggered, just a little, as their lips met, Aziraphale was more than happy to anchor him.

The Principality Aziraphale in his celestial armor, mighty of stance and powerful of form, did not kiss Crowley. No, that privilege went to Aziraphale the sometime bookseller — short and round, and probably a bit foolish, and very, very soft. The kind of soft which had Crowley’s arms around him now, encompassing all of him, and treasuring every bit of it. The kind of soft which had his own hands stroking delicately through Crowley’s hair. Which set their lips seeking each other's, and finding, and breathlessly seeking again.

Aziraphale thought, in the last moment where he would be thinking about much of _anything_ for a while, about the pigeon. There was no need to forgive it for frightening Crowley, of course — it was only a wild creature, and small, so obviously frightened itself — but he decided that he forgave it anyway. And he pushed, just a bit, on reality, to make sure it would find something lovely to eat.

**Author's Note:**

> I said in my starting notes that this story was inspired by three Tumblr posts. The third is [this one](https://scaramacaisstuff.tumblr.com/post/185966449920/can-we-move-yes-hes-afraid-of-pigeons-you) by scaramacaisstuff! I knew I wanted the panicked call from Crowley to wind up not actually being a real problem at all — I just couldn’t figure out what form that would take until I remembered this post. Then I started grinning like an absolute walnut.
> 
> After I’d finished writing, Tumblr user drawlight posted some really great meta on Aziraphale and his potential past as a soldier [here](https://drawlight.tumblr.com/post/187002465659/hello-dear-light-ive-been-wondering-what-your). I knew right away I’d have to include it in the notes to this story, because so much of what they say there lines up with my own thought processes.
> 
> **Thank you for reading!** If you were thinking of leaving a comment, please know that I treasure every single one, whether it's a single emoticon, a copy-pasted line, a keysmash, an entire novel of feelings, or whatever. I've literally cried a few times reading some of the lovely things people have said in comments, and they really are fuel for my soft little heart -- but never, ever required, so please don't feel pressured. Just know that if you're ever questioning whether it would bother or annoy me for you to comment or otherwise reach out, _no oh goodness no it will never bother me it will absolutely do the opposite of that_.
> 
> If you want to say hi on Tumblr, I'm [ineffablefool](https://ineffablefool.tumblr.com) there, too. The last sentence of the previous paragraph applies here as well. 
> 
> I would never actively request art from anyone I wasn't paying, but if you, the human reading this, were to decide it was worth your time to create fanart based on any of my stories, I would be incredibly honored ([and would love to enshrine it forever on my Tumblr](https://ineffablefool.tumblr.com/tagged/ineffablefool-gets-fanart-from-lovely-people))! I have only one requirement: please don't draw Aziraphale any thinner than the size I headcanon (I need both my soft cuddly daydreams, and my positive fat representation). Here are some examples of what that sort of minimum body size/shape might look like: ([speremint 1](https://speremint.tumblr.com/post/186342035100/i-did-this-instead-of-my-hw-ya-girl-is-gonna)) ([speremint 2 from her Reversed Omens AU](https://speremint.tumblr.com/post/186574829700/finally-finally-done-making-these-refs-my)) ([dotstronaut](https://dotstronaut.tumblr.com/post/186740069618/no-really-i-dont-think-you-all-understand-how)) Otherwise, the characters can look however you like!
> 
> (If you say something nice about one of my stories and I recognize you as an artist who does commissions, there is a chance I will ask to give you an amount of money of your choosing to draw your favorite bit of the story you complimented. Just a little warning.) 
> 
> I hope you're having a fantastic day.


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